


A Gift for My Lady

by frickincheng



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Introspection, Other, POV Original Character, Time Period: First Cetagandan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frickincheng/pseuds/frickincheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small piece set during the Cetagandan occupation of Barrayar from the point of view of a Dendarii resistance fighter.  Mostly original characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift for My Lady

It was going to snow, soon. 

Danil’s breath curled in from his blue-tinged lips, the steam curving in a wisp to be torn away in the sharp-edged breeze. He hunkered down, wiry shoulders shifting in spotted green of his Ranger’s jacket. The cloth was worn, patched, unstained, though the material was faded, speaking of many washes. The wind blew right through the material, the thin sweater he wore underneath barely insulating him from the sharp cold. 

Pale blue eyes peered up at the darkening sky through the canopy of dead branches. It was clear, barely a cloud in sight, but Danil _knew_ , he could smell it in the wind, that sharp bitter tang, fresh and dangerous. Storms blew in fierce in the Dendarii, sudden blizzards, and if the air smelled like this, Ma would have been telling him to go inside, to get Alla inside too. 

‘Cept Ma was dead, and Alla too, and the homestead was empty, and Danil was out here. His hands slowly clenched and unclenched, forcing blood through his stiffening fingers, keeping loose, his eyes peering down back at the path. 

He had walked his shoes to flinders, after escaping that burning homestead, blood still spattered on the front of his shirt, flecked over his cheeks, staining his hands. He hadn’t stopped, hadn’t even washed his hands, not until he got to headquarters, to the resistance. 

Ma told him he was too young to join. Ma was dead now and it didn’t matter. 

His feet had been bleeding and swollen, but he still stood before the young General Piotr, back straight. Dark eyes scanned him, stripping him down, lingering at the spray of blood across his cheek. 

“How many?” Was all he asked. 

“Two, general. Both with my knife.” 

That got him a smile, sharp and sudden and Danil’s spine straightened even more. 

He had been inducted into the Rangers an hour later. He had been 16. 

There was a crack, the sound of a branch snapping, and his gaze sharpened, honed down to the road below him. A smile crossed his face as more sounds reached his ears, crashing through the undergrowth. 

Two Cetagandans eventually stumbled out, one of them clearly holding a power scanner, his eyes flicking from the screen, to the woods around him. Danil’s smile widened into something wolfish, and he fingered the knife belted to his thigh. Scouts. 

The drew their way closer, murmuring in their own liquid language, achingly slow it seemed, but Danil was patient, watching them stumble to their deaths, their conversation muting at the roar of blood in his ears. 

Once the one leading was directly below his tree, Danil dropped, calloused hands gripping at a low lying branch at the last moment, both feet flying out in a vicious kick, catching the man right in the throat. The Cetagandan went down, choking and spitting blood, but he wasn’t Danil’s concern, not now at least. 

The knife was a blur in his hand, flashing even as the second fumbled for his sidearm. Danil tore himself to the side, even as a sizzling bolt of plasma seared by him, grazing him, searing flesh. He gritted his teeth past the pain, and his knife flashed again, and the Cetagandan fell back with a gurgle, blood spattering in an arc around him. 

And then it was over, and Danil stood, the silent eye of carnage, booted feet silent on the forest floor as he strode to the first Cetagandan, whose breath was choking out of him through his crushed throat. His booted heel slammed and ground down, ignoring the man’s struggles. He was still, finally, and then Danil could move. 

He knelt, the movements quick, and well-learned, as he grabbed a handful of the corpse’s hair. The strands were thick, silken against his palm and he pulled tight, setting the knife at the hairline, the keen edge sawing through skin, until the scalp pulled free. 

He jerked at the first cold touch to his cheek, and then smiled faintly, looking up, pausing in his grisly work, watching the snowflakes swirl down.


End file.
